


The Devil You Know

by wyntre



Series: Love You to Death [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), BDSM, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Dom/sub, Dominant Aziraphale (Good Omens), Exactly What It Says on the Tin, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Lapdance, M/M, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pole Dancing, Questionable music choices, Spanking, Submissive Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 01:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20537597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntre/pseuds/wyntre
Summary: Crowley performs a private pole dance.  Aziraphale has a hard time keeping his hands to himself, and decides to teach Crowley a lesson.  (Everything in moderation, including glam metal and demons in full body pentagram harnesses)





	The Devil You Know

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to: Caedmon, WyvernQuill, Still_Not_King & the Good Omens Big Bang NSFW Discord in general for supporting my ridiculous idea.

It had all started on an autumn afternoon.

"I want to try something," Crowley had said conversationally two weeks prior. They had been sitting on the balcony of Crowley's flat, drinking red wine and soaking up the last rays as the sun started to set. Aziraphale had simply hummed in response.

"I want to try um, dancing for you. I mean, erotic dancing."

The angel's eyes went wide at the prospect. 

"I… ngk… shit. I used to do this, believe it or not. For a while I worked the club scene in Soho." Crowley stared into the bottom of his glass, colour rising in his cheeks. “It was the 80s, I got bored.”  
Aziraphale blinked twice before crashing back down to Earth. “You did erotic dancing?”  
“Pole, actually. And the odd private lapdance for a select group of men who always paid well.” He swirled his glass. “But if it’s not something you’re interested in, then I can not.”  
The blond placed a hand on Crowley’s knee, envy bubbling below the surface at the thought of other people looking at his demon. “Would it be -ah, a _ private _ show?”  
“Of course, angel.” Crowley had a wicked thought. “Let it be a test of your resilience. See how long you can last before you break.”  
That was a dangerous invitation, both knew how Aziraphale responded to Crowley’s tempting. It involved restraints and paddles. 

* * *

  


The throbbing bass of Def Leppard came barreling through the speakers Crowley had hooked up throughout his flat. He sauntered up to the pole he had miracled into the middle of the lounge room; patent red, thigh-high, platform boots clacking rhythmically on the wooden floor. Clicking his fingers, the lights dimmed and turned red, and he reached the pole, spinning around it momentarily before rolling his serpentine, barely clad body up and down the cool metal. The silver clasps of the full-body pentagram harness he wore glinted under the red lights as his hips swayed dangerously to the rhythm of the track blasting through his speakers. 

_ Love is like a bomb, baby, c'mon get it on _

_ Livin' like a lover with a radar phone _ _  
_ _ Love is like a bomb, baby, c'mon get it on _

_ Livin' like a lover with a radar phone _

Crowley hooked a leg around the pole, hoisting himself off the ground with sheer force, and rotated, winking as he caught sight of Aziraphale, sitting prim and proper on the sofa. The music shifted to KISS and he began to work the pole as though it was an extension of his body. This was a show, simply for him, and it was causing heat to pool in the bottom of Aziraphale’s stomach. The angel was beginning to feel his Effort harden, and he itched to reach out and feel that supple form yield to his plump hands, but the whole point of this was to _ look and not touch. _

_ You drive me crazy when you start to tease _

_ You could bring the devil to his knees _

Aziraphale bit his lip as the toned, lithe muscles in Crowley's arms pulled him up the pole and held him out, suspended in mid air. Long, and lean, the demon rippled his body to the chugging guitars; the firm globes of his ass enticingly framed by black leather straps. This was getting increasingly difficult. Crowley slid down the pole, and rolled his body back up, arching his back and flipping over so the pole was between his legs and he was upside down. The track changed again, this time Alice Cooper’s theatrics thundered out of the sound system. The demon took his time, maintaining eye contact with Aziraphale as he slid his elegant hands up and down the pole, before arching his back and pulling himself up the pole again to splay his legs wide. 

Oh, good Lord.

_ I wanna hold you, but my senses tell me to stop _

_ I wanna kiss you but I want it too much (too much) _

_ I wanna taste you but your lips are venomous Poison _

Aziraphale sucked a breath in between his teeth, fists balled on his thighs, in a vain attempt to avoid touching himself. Crowley flipped over, lowered himself to the floor and tipped his head back, hands curled firmly about the pole. The angel had the fleeting thought that the show was over, but Crowley had other ideas. With a snap, the music changed entirely. A sparse, synth arrangement with a thrusting bassline and a clear female voice; complete contrast to the chugging guitars of the earlier medley. 

_ See me up in the club with fifty of the girls _

_ Posted in the back with my things on my grill _

Ah, bebop.

Crowley slowly sauntered to where Aziraphale sat, bowstring taut and sweating slightly. He rolled his hips, swinging around with his back to Aziraphale. There was barely a few inches of space and the angel gazed, enraptured, as Crowley began to sway. Under the dim crimson lighting, Crowley looked for all the world like Temptation Itself. The intricate tattoo of black angel wings that decorated his pale back glistened slightly and seemed to vibrate as Crowley lost himself in the music. He dropped his ass to Aziraphale's lap and rubbed against the hardness there, and Aziraphale broke. 

The angel's hands went to Crowley's hips to still them. A minor miracle killed the music and Aziraphale's hot breath ghosted over the shell of Crowley's ear.

"I think you've had enough fun for one night," he whispered, moving one hand up to play with a nipple. Crowley choked back a moan as Aziraphale tugged at the hard nub. "On your knees, where you belong." 

Crowley dropped into subspace so hard he saw endless galaxies. He allowed himself to be guided to the floor at Aziraphale's feet, with a hand tangled in his hair; not pulling, not yet at least.  
“When you told me about this, about your stint in the stripclubs of Soho, I was jealous. Jealous that others had been able to see your body, had possibly gone home and touched themselves at the thought of you, rubbing against the pole under flashing lights.” Aziraphale tugged Crowley’s hair, and the demon let out a whine. “But then, then I realised that it didn’t matter. Because you’re mine now. And all this is just for me. And aren’t you good? So good to me.” Crowley’s head was forced backwards by the strong hand in his hair. “You look so pretty, sitting here at my feet. This is where you’re supposed to be.” Crowley let out a guttural gasp at the praise.

The angel’s eyes glowed a brilliant, storm-hued blue and Crowley braced himself for what would likely be a torrent of righteous jealousy. With a snap, Crowley found himself bound face-down against a saltire cross, the delicious globes of his ass exposed.  
“As good as you are, little one, you still need to be punished for such a display.” _ Little one _ shot straight through the bound demon like a bolt of lightning and settled in his core, catapulting him deeper into subspace. He was vaguely aware of the feel of the cool wood of the paddle being dragged tortuously across his backside.  
“Remember the safeword?” Crowley nodded weakly. “Good. Now, I want you to count.”  
The first strike of the paddle made a delightful _ thwack _ against Crowley’s behind. He began to count, out loud. Each strike, making contact with a different part of Crowley’s ass and thighs, until they were red and throbbing. He counted twenty before Aziraphale pulled back and rubbed a soothing hand over the inflamed flesh. The angel pressed up against him, experimentally pressing into Crowley’s clit with one hand and tangling the other into Crowley’s auburn locks.  
“You took that well, my dear,” he muttered, catching Crowley’s earlobe between his teeth and tugging. He ran two fingers down Crowley’s wet slit momentarily before retracting his hand, Crowley whined desperately at the loss of contact. “I like you like this. All open and waiting for me. Begging. You’re so good.” He pulled away, giving Crowley’s hair a sharp yank before letting go and standing back to admire the tableau before him. Crowley, all long, lean lines; spreadeagle and bound. That gorgeous ass, those slim thighs, the arch of the back, and the narrow waist and hips. The black angel wing tattoos bristling with power, eager to escape. Still he wanted to try something else, so he waved a hand and suddenly the demon was on the bed, frogtied.

Aziraphale made his way slowly to the line of striking instruments hanging on the wall. There were three canes, a riding crop, the paddle he had used earlier and a cat o' nine tails, which Aziraphale reserved for special occasions. He carefully selected the riding crop, then headed back to where Crowley lay, prone with his leg forced apart by carefully knotted ropes. Aziraphale tested the weight of the crop in his hand, before sliding it up and down Crowley’s dripping sex.  
“Tell me, my dear, what did you think was going to happen?” Aziraphale tapped Crowley’s cunt lightly with the crop, extracting a moan from the demon. “Did you think you’d be able to, ah- display yourself like that, and not be reminded of exactly what you are?” Aziraphale brought the crop down again, harder this time. “You’re such a good harlot, aren’t you? Willing to sell your body to the highest bidder.” Crowley cried out in pain and Aziraphale stilled for a moment, waiting for the safeword to escape Crowley’s lips but it never came.  
“Colour, Crowley?”  
“Green.”  
“You’re ok?”  
Crowley huffed out a pent up breath. “Yeah, just, sensitive.”  
“Maybe too much?”  
Crowley shook his head fervently. He liked pain, he _ really _ liked pain when it was delivered by a certain angel.  
“Good boy.” The crop sailed through the air, making contact with a sharp snap. This time, Crowley keened at a frequency only dogs and celestial beings could hear. “Look at you, you are art.” One more smart tap, and the crop was miracled back to the wall, where it hung - clean and ready to be used again. Crowley looked up at him, yellow irises engulfing what remained of the whites of his eyes, pupils blown wide.

Aziraphale ached to be inside Crowley, but this wasn’t about him. He would wait until Crowley begged for him. Pleaded to be taken apart and left a sobbing mess. 

* * *

Sometime later, Crowley found himself tucked into bed. Blessedly dry and clean. His body was sore and he could feel the remnants of the paddling he’d been given. Aziraphale sat up in bed next to him reading.  
“What happened?”  
Aziraphale placed a bookmark in his book and put it on the side table. “You blanked out when you came. I cleaned you up and put you to bed. I thought you could use the sleep.” He placed an arm around Crowley, pulled him close and threaded his fingers through the demon’s hair. “No miracles, either. You’ll be sore for a while.”

Crowley smiled softly. That was something he always enjoyed, feeling the bruises and tender flesh for weeks after. Knowing what Aziraphale had done to him. Reminding him who he belonged to. 

Aziraphale placed a gentle kiss on the top of Crowley’s head. “I love you. Even when you’re wily.”


End file.
